


Oh, How The Mighty Fall

by jakeenglish



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Briefly Mentioned Suicidal Thoughts, Cheating, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakeenglish/pseuds/jakeenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2006, things have hit the ground running for emo-punk band Panic! at the Disco. With a sold-out world tour and thousands of screaming fans, the quartet of young men have successfully won the hearts of the scene youth of America. However, not all that glitters is gold.</p>
<p>Ryan Ross finds himself stuck between two men, one he loves hopelessly, and one whom he feels nothing for. Over the course of four years, he digs himself into a hole of lies, lust, and regret. Sex is his only solace, and Pete Wentz is his addiction. Brendon Urie is the bump in the road that busted his tire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE - When All Is Said And Done

This is not a happy ending, but it’s not like I really deserve one. 

My hands are shaking violently as I reach for the last cigarette in my pack, biting down on it while I fumble for my lighter. It’s nearly three in the morning and I haven’t slept for at least twenty-four hours. Not like I’ve been keeping track. The past three days have been a blur of emotions and actions. I said a lot of shit I didn’t mean; in the same breath, I was more honest than I’ve been in years. Nothing feels real, and I can’t wake up from this drug-induced fever dream. Part of me believes that tomorrow will be another day on tour, but that’s over. It’s all over. For me, at least.

Jon said he’d meet me in the Denny’s at three, and it’s forty after two now. Enough time for a quick smoke and a moment of self-reflection.

I am not, fundamentally, a good person. I’ve been through shit. I’m a hellion, a natural disaster. I’m a toddler running through a field of daisies. I will pluck every last petal and eat the stem. Despite my warnings, despite my constant reminders, I always find myself surrounded by people who are shocked and appalled by the way I treat others. I’m disgusting, but I blame it on my home life. I blame it on Pete. I blame it on God. I blame it on anyone but myself.

The cigarette doesn’t improve my mood. I smoke it regardless. Besides, the bitter taste and curling smoke is beautiful in it’s own right; I've ruined enough beauty in my life, I may as well let this one live. L.A.’s neon lights illuminate the wispy cloud surrounding me, smoke distorting the jarring colors. At least the area is well lit- it makes standing alone in a Denny’s parking lot seem a little less pathetic.

I start to walk towards the diner entrance, my footsteps echoing in the silent lot. As I step away from the light, my trail of smoke becomes a smoggy shadow. I don't want my cigarette anymore. Just another bad habit.

I drop the cigarette on the asphalt, stamping out the glowing ember. I dig my heel into it and twist twice, choking the flame and smothering the light. The act of aggression releases some tension from my shoulders, allowing them to slump back. The body language makes me seem relaxed.

I'm not. I’m fucking exhausted.

I walk into Denny’s. 

A warm greeting from the waitress contrasts the blast of cool air I receive upon entering. It takes all of two seconds to spot Jon; his mop-head is visible in the corner of a booth, menu not four inches from his face. Of course. I walk over to him before the waitress feels obligated to seat me, sliding into the cushioned booth. It’s worn along the sides, upholstery poking through torn seams. Jon doesn't even have the decency to set down his menu, so I busy myself with the cushion. Pushing the stuffing back into place makes me feel better about myself, like I’m correcting my own life’s mishaps. One strip of duct tape and the seams will never again be broken. Maybe if I tape my mouth shut my own seams won't break.

“You’re a pretty big fuck up,” Jon says. I glance away from the cushion, staring at the back of his menu. I can hear the sly smirk in his tone; he sounds appreciative. Impressed? I furrow my brow, unintentionally clicking my tongue in annoyance. While his words are bullets, I am made of steel. Sarcastic remarks stopped hurting me a long time ago.

“Thanks. Got anything I don't know?” The pure exhaustion in my voice surprises even me, but the tone doesn't warrant a look from Jon. The waitress comes by before he responds. I sigh and order a coffee. Once she leaves I lean back into my seat, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. My only friend is sick of my shit. It's about time; I single-handedly broke up the biggest thing that’ll ever happen to us. Maybe he's just tired. It’s always hard to tell with Jon. His blatant honesty is dished with a hefty serving of smart-ass. Call it my outstanding intuition, but I don't think he’s entirely happy to see me. Thankfully, Jon deals with my bullshit for now. Deep down, he cares. He also knows that I don’t; his absence would just increase my likelihood of doing something stupid. 

Jon finally puts down the menu and looks at me, expression grimaced and eyebrow quirked curiously. “You didn’t think it’d last forever though, did you? I mean, this all had to end eventually.” 

No shit. I bite my tongue instead of commenting, hastily taking the coffee that’s handed to me. It’s black and scalding. I drink it anyways.

“Yes, and no.” I answer, taste-buds scorched. I take another sip. “I figured I could just keep it up forever. Like some fucked up fantasy. It was a wicked case of wrong place, wrong time. If she had left five minutes earlier...” I don’t bother finishing. With the way Jon is looking at me, I’m afraid he might toss the coffee in my face. In all fairness, I deserve it. 

“But,” I add, raising a finger before taking another drink. “It’s probably for the best. In fact, Brendon is going to excel now that I’m gone. Sure, he’s a shitty lyricist, but kids don't care about that anymore. A pretty face and a pair of pipes is a guarantee to run this town.”

Jon shakes his head, clearly only half-listening. I don't care. Half-listening is better than nothing. “It still sucks, though.” I add quickly. He notices that and shrugs.  
“You brought this upon yourself, Ross. You deserve what’s coming to you.” 

I hate when the shit he spouts his true, but it's what I need to hear. It’s comforting knowing my self-deprecation is a universal opinion. As soothing as this notion is, Jon is beginning to piss me off.

“And what’s coming to me, huh?” I grit my teeth, waving away the waitress when she returns for our orders. Jon doesn’t seem too happy about it, but I don't care. Hopefully this apathy towards my impact on others isn't news.  
“I’m not getting my happily ever after, but I’m not going to fucking kill myself.” I narrow my eyes, rising from my seat and gripping a stray fork until my knuckles turn white. I don't notice. 

“So, what’s left? Ride Panic’s coattails until I’m a forgotten burn-out?” My voice slowly escalates, a stringent hysteria mixed with overtired irritation.  
“No thanks, fuck that! And fuck Panic! at the Disco, too!”

I have successfully managed to call the attention of everyone in the diner, which only bothers me slightly. I’ve tried being a reserved guy in terms of the media, but making an ass of myself in public is hardly going to affect my shattered reputation. 

I fall back into the cushion and anxiously run a hand through my hair, fisting it tightly. I let my eyes close. Jon takes my silence as a chance to place his order, and the other late-night patrons return to their business. It's quiet while Jon considers his next statement.

“I don’t know,” he begins. “I’m sure once this all blows over you’ll be fine. Especially since the two of you never came out about,” He makes a hand gesture. “You know.”

Another pause.

“Brendon, believe or not, doesn’t want to make this a huge deal. He’ll probably make something up and pretend like you're both mature adults, which by the way, you are not. Artistic differences sounds fair.”

I’ve never appreciated Jon’s holier-than-thou approach to scolding, especially considering the minimal age gap, but he’s always been wise beyond his years and spoken with the clarity of a sage. It’s hard to believe how much pot we smoked together; then again, the band couldn't stand each other sober. I realize I hadn't caught anything he said.

“Yeah,” Is all I mutter out, defeated. I focus on my coffee. It’s murky and cheap. I clear my throat.

“Well, what lies in store for us then?”   
I give Jon a desperate look, silently begging him not to make some sarcastic remark. I’ve never been alone with myself for long, and it’s not something I’m interested in pursuing. Jon had to have taken my side for more than worry’s sake, right? I hope his motive is music related. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s write music. It’s my one release in life, and ironically, the cause of my downfall. I doubt we’d be as popular as Panic!, and finding someone to sign us would be a bitch, but we could make it work. That’s me. Always moving ahead. 

Jon sighs, looking at me tiredly.

“Why don’t you get your shit together first, Ryan.” His tone is familiar and motherly. It stings a lot more than it should. 

“As much as you hate it, you’re human. You need time to heal before thrusting yourself into the limelight again.” I pick at my nails as a hush falls over the diner, suddenly fascinated with how many hangnails I have. He’s right. I hate it. I convince myself that ignoring his statement will invalidate it, but Jon’s unforgiving stare says otherwise.  
I’ve never been good with honesty. After all, the past four years of my life have been a beautiful, intricate lie.

“I don’t think we should release a diss album,” I say, avoiding the topic expertly. “It’s exactly what Brendon expects me to do.” I grin cheekily at Jon, who seems absolutely and wholeheartedly exhausted. I couldn't place whether he was annoyed with me or just in general. I decide to drop it either way. 

His food arrives and he smiles, thanking the waitress before eating. She affirms that I don’t want anything, says “Alright, sugar.” and leaves. I think it’s interesting, how old women address everybody with pet names. I was never fond of them, they seem to downgrade a relationship. Why would you ever tire of saying someone’s name? It’s who they are, their entire essence. There’s nothing more beautiful than the name of an individual. Even if they themselves are not beautiful. For example, I am, whether I like it or not, George Ryan Ross III. There is nothing anyone can do to change that. I should know.

Jon has devoured his meal. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after catching my stare.

“Mm. Well, where do you want to go?” He says, standing to his feet. I follow him to the register while he pays the tab. That’s a really good question. There isn’t anywhere to go. Neither of us have homes in L.A., and I have no desire to stay here. There’s nothing for me in Nevada either; Las Vegas was never what I’d call home. 

We walk back to the parking lot, and I finally answer him. 

“I guess wherever we can shack up.” 

He replies shortly. “Hotel?” 

“Sure.” I’m not eager about it, but a bed is better than my car seat.

“Alright.” 

I look at Jon for a while, leaning against my car. He’s lingering.

“I’ll follow you there?”

“Yeah.” He steps away, leaving my gaunt figure in the darkness. 

I sigh and climb in my car, stretching my fingers around the steering wheel. It takes a few kicks to start up my old Chevy Blazer, but she hums to life eventually. The radio flickers on, playing the intro to a song I’m painfully familiar with. I clench my jaw and drive.

I am the King of Lonely Island, sitting on a throne made of fool’s gold. I stand before my empty court, preaching the lyrics to a song I wrote ages ago. My royal blood is spoiling. I scream until my throat is hoarse.


	2. Chapter 1 - From the Beautiful Beginning to the Fateful End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on updating every other week, or every week if possible. Thanks for reading and feel free to check in with me at my blog [here.](https://ryroes.tumblr.com)

It’s easy to fall in love with someone, especially when you’re as vulnerable as I am. All I’ve ever wanted in life is for someone to validate me, tell me I’m not so bad. Someone who cares about me for more than just my appearance or my lyrics. As I’ve learned, it’s easy to fake being interested in someone. 

I stare at Pete hazily. He’s looking out the window, but it’s dark and there’s nothing to see. It must be a better view than my sweaty, hopeful face.

The pattern is cyclical. I call him, he answers, he picks me up, and we fuck. After, he doesn’t look at me and hopes I’ll leave him without prompting. Everytime, without fail, I refuse to leave until he gives me that look. The ‘Ryan, you’re a good kid, but Ashlee will be here in the morning- you can’t be here’ look.  
It never gets easier, but I try to savor our time together; strained silence is better than absence. My chest hurts the same either way.

“Hey,” I say quietly, breaking the tension. I sit up and tentatively reach to brush my hand over his; it’s small and rough, calloused from years of playing bass. He doesn’t retract from my touch, but he looks a bit offended by it. There’s an unspoken rule: once the sex is over, any affection stops. I press further, unable to help my own childish urges. I wrap my hand around his palm and press my forehead against his bicep. 

“What’s up, Ross?” Pete asks, not returning any of my contact. 

I almost don’t want to reply. If I don’t then it’s just another moment I have next to him, before he eventually kicks me to the curb for his girlfriend. To sleep next to her, and brush their noses together, and hold hands. It makes me feel physically ill; I unknowingly cling to him, my own lanky frame wrapping around his stout one like a vine on a tree. He smells like sweat and shitty cologne, and I bury my face in his neck to latch onto it.

Fuck, I’m desperate. 

“Don’t kick me out yet. Kiss me again,” I beg him as convincingly as I can, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood. “Please.” 

After staring for a moment, Pete sighs and shifts us. He grabs my shoulders and holds me still, leaning forward to kiss me the way he wants to: short, sweet, and to the point. No tongue. His lips are chapped.

I follow his face when he pulls away, sneaking another peck to his lips before surrendering and reclining back on my knees. I must look pretty pathetic because Pete laughs at me, shaking his head and fishing around for a cigarette.  
He didn’t smoke before I met him. 

“I’m taking you back to your bus once I finish this smoke,” He says plainly. Pete doesn’t leave any room for argument, so I don’t bother. Instead, I give him one more longing look before stumbling off the bed and heading for the bathroom. My locks get tangled in my fingers when I run my hand through my hair; I’ve started to grow it out a bit, and I’ve noticed it’s been easier to hold onto. Perks, I guess. 

I make it to Pete’s bathroom and look warily in the mirror, frowning when I get a good look at my reflection. I’m nothing incredibly special, not really. Tall, skinny. Thin wrists accompanied with too-large hands, which I run over my average face. There’s a bit of childish youth to my features that I can’t seem to shake, despite being twenty. I don’t think I’m attractive, but my ego is certainly stroked by the amount of fans that throw their brassieres at me. Brendon is really the star of our show, just like Pete is the star of his. 

With a sigh, I pick up the mouthwash and rinse Pete out of my mouth, the alcohol burning my gums. It’s painful, and tears well up in my eyes. After I spit, I notice I’m still crying. 

While I need a shower, Pete is probably already done smoking and waiting on me so he can pass out. It takes a lot for him to stay up post-fuck apparently, and while I’ve suggested just letting me stay over, the idea is absolutely out of the question. He says Ashlee might come over and yell at him. Which, frankly, is bullshit, considering we both know that the cheating is mutual in their relationship. Either way, I march my bitter ass back into the bedroom and pick up my scattered clothes. 

I hear a concerned grunt while pulling my shirt on, and turn to see Pete frowning like a parent. I give him a confused look and finish buttoning my pants. 

“What?” My voice is wavering. I’m still crying, and Pete notices. I immediately force myself to stop, hurriedly wiping away the remaining tears from my cheeks. I can feel my face return to default: neutral, bored. Wentz, unfortunately, is not buying it. 

“You’re crying,” He says, standing to his feet. He had put his pants on while I was gone. “Why?” 

I swallow thickly and look to the side. I don’t like confrontation. “I wasn’t crying. Mind if I bum a cigarette?” 

“Ryan,” His voice is firm. My chest tightens. Hearing Pete say my name lights my nerves, like I’m some sort of roaring wildfire in the midst of a California drought. His voice sparks me, but it also douses me. He says my name again, smoking out the fire.  
_“Ryan.”_

I turn back to him and deliver a half-smile, shrugging my shoulders weakly. What am I supposed to say? I think about you all the time? I want you to leave your long-term girlfriend for me? I think I’m in love with you? 

“Jesus Christ,” Is the best I can manage. I bite the inside of my lip. “It’s nothing you really want to hear about,” and that’s the God’s honest truth. Pete isn’t an idiot, he knows about my stupid crush, and he has no desire to even mention it. We both like to take the route of ‘if I ignore it, it’ll go away’. Unfortunately for us, it hasn’t worked. I still love him, and it’s still unrequited. 

He pulls his mouth into a cute side smile and walks towards me, placing a hand on my shoulder. It’s sort of awkward, considering I’m a whole head taller than he is, but Pete has a way of seeming larger than life. He looks away for a moment, opens his mouth, then closes it. He thinks for another second, chews his words, and looks me dead in the eyes. His gaze is poignant. 

“You have to move on, Ryan. You’re a good kid, and I like you a lot. You and your band are a bunch of really talented boys,” He pauses and squeezes my shoulder. “But I love Ashlee. I don’t love anyone but Ashlee. I don’t want you stuck on someone who doesn’t give a shit about you.”  
I wince internally at that remark. Pete smiles weakly and moves his hand. “Sorry. Romantically, I mean. You’re just going to get cut on my edges, Ryan. It’d be better if you shacked up with Brendon, yeah? He’s a cutie.” 

Hearing that come from Pete makes me want to shoot myself in the foot. It seems like everyone: my bandmates, Pete, the fans… they all want me to hook up with him. Brendon included. He’s all too eager to show his affection, bounding about with his limitless energy and getting a little too touchy. No one ever considers how I feel about it. I don’t even like him that way. He’s cute, sure, but... it would be like kissing my brother. 

“Thanks,” Is all I say. The intent is bitter, but the result is defeated. I can feel tears stinging my eyes; I bite them back, gritting my teeth and raising my eyebrows instead. “So, you ready?” 

Pete doesn’t seem pleased with my reaction, but he doesn’t want to argue. He gives me a disappointed sigh and nods, gesturing towards the door. “Yeah.”

The ride back to the bus is quiet, the radio drowning out any possible chance of conversation. I don’t even bother, it’s clear I’ve made Pete uncomfortable. Once I reach that point, it’s worthless to even try and engage him. He’s like a brick wall once he shuts up. While Pete will fool you into believing he’s open and inviting, he’s about as much of a conversationalist as I am. Fronting was never Patrick’s speciality, so he manned up and took the reigns. Pete’s been through a lot, and it has obviously taken a toll on him. He’s not even thirty, but frown lines crease over his forehead. We’ve both agreed never to bring up his suicidal past. He told me once that he has too much on the line to die. 

Suddenly, Pete turns down the radio. His grip on the wheel tightens. A long pause follows, and I assume the worst: “I think we should stop seeing each other.”  
I mentally prepare my rebuttal when he asks a simple question. 

“Have you started working on the next album?”  
His tone is neutral, but I know he’s interested. Pete said that one of the reasons he signed us, aside from Brendon’s vocal potential, was my lyrics. I’ve always been an excellent creative author; it’s the one thing I easily give myself credit for. Words, I’ve found, are the best form of self-expression. Music, paired with words, is the mind-blowing combination that is all too frequently passed over in terms of art. I blame it on the shitty top forty. Granted, I Write Sins, arguably the worst song off our album, is constantly getting airplay. Maybe that means we’re equally as shitty. Maybe I’m just overthinking shit.

Pete clears his throat. I haven’t answered him yet. “Uh, sort of. I have some ideas,” I rub my thumb over my knuckle aimlessly and furrow my brow, thinking about the direction of the next album. It isn’t anything like Fever, not even close. “It’s different, though.” 

I turn to gauge his reaction, and it doesn’t look good. Change is not something he’s used to; Fall Out Boy has been producing the same kind of music for the past half-decade. Nothing wrong with that, but what’s the point of living without a little spice?

“Be wary with that, Ryan,” He says, but doesn’t discourage me at all. Despite our current state of affairs, Pete has always been there for me as both my record executive and friend. He trusts my judgement on music, considering I was mostly in charge of Fever’s direction. While he may be lukewarm to change, it doesn’t seem to bother him too much. I roll my lip between my teeth and fold my hands over my lap, patiently waiting for him to continue his thought.

“Well, what’s it going to sound like then?” Pete turns to look at me when we stop at a light, shooting me a heart-melting smile. 

“Um, well, it’s really… Beatle-y...” I stumble over my words like an idiot. “And it’s about love, and being happy with who you are.”  
I look away, swallowing thickly and rubbing an anxious thumb over my knuckle. “Gay, I know. But there’s too much negativity out there.” 

When I wrote Fever, I wasn’t expecting it to be popular. I had laid my heart out on the page, describing through cabaret metaphors how fucked up I felt. When it blew up, I was embarrassed and offended. Watching kids scream out lyrics that they couldn’t possibly understand. It really pissed me off, but it’s not like I could do anything about it. I couldn’t even tell anybody. They’d just think I was a conceited jerk. In a certain light, maybe I was.

But now, this album, it’s going to be different. No more angsty lyrics about cheating women or drunken fathers. It’s all about reinventing love and being happy with what you have. Pretty ironic, considering I am incredibly unfortunate in both areas, but the album isn’t just for me.

Pete is silent for a bit while he mulls over the information, humming thoughtfully. After a moment, he speaks.  
“That’s nice. Got any finished songs yet?”  
He sounds tense. He has probably realized I’m going to write songs about him.  
He’s never going to write songs about me.  
My heart is in my throat when I speak again. “Yeah.”

He raises a brow and smiles knowingly. “Play them for me sometime. I’d like to hear them before your boys.” 

“Alright,” I mumble quietly, not really wanting to share what I’ve written with him. It’s raw, it’s emotional, and it is fucking gay. It’s ridiculous, I may as well have titled it “The Ballad of Pete Wentz”. 

The rest of the car ride is uncomfortably silent. I stare at my hands while the radio blares. It’s about this time when the guilt kicks in. I feel like dirt for sleeping with Pete, for lying to my bandmates. I’ll go home, get drunk, then pass the fuck out. I might even roll one and smoke it if I’m feeling particularly feisty.

We pull up about a mile from the bus. Pete turns off the engine, resting his hands in his lap and sighing a little louder than necessary. “Well. I’ll see you later, Ryan.” He looks exhausted. I almost feel bad for making him drive me all the way out here. I don’t have a car at the moment though, and it’s a bit of payback for not being in love with me.

“Yeah.”  
I unbuckle my seatbelt and press my shoulders back, hand rubbing my eye tiredly. I hate this. I hate sneaking out. This vicious cycle is killing me, but I can’t seem to stop the glorious torture.

“Keep me updated on the album, dude.”  
Dude. What a fucking idiot, he is almost thirty goddamn years old and he’s calling me dude. I roll my eyes and step out of the car, glaring down at him incredulously. 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Pete,” I tell him blandly, then slam the door in his face. It feels good to leave him gaping in confusion. At the end of the day, I’m the king of this court. He is but a lowly Jester. I won’t let him play with me like some sort of child. If I’m going to kill myself over Pete Wentz, then it’ll damn well be on my own accord.

With that empowering thought in mind, I take the short walk to the bus. I fish out a cigarette to smoke while I think. It’s pretty early, the guys will most likely be awake still. Brendon sure as hell would be, worrying like some annoying puppy nipping at your ankles. The thought irritates me. I take a huge inhale of smoke,. It backfires, and I cough and sputter like a moron. In the midst of my hacking, two young girls begin to screech.

I don’t have a problem with fans. Really, I don’t. The fact that people pay my band half a mind is something to be spoken of, but I am really not in the mood to be dealing with preteens. Especially in a shitty mood. Especially while choking.

My near-death experience doesn’t seem to affect them. They rush up to me, foaming at the mouth like some kind of rabid canine. I don’t blame them; if I’d seen my idol when I was fifteen, I would’ve jumped their bones as well. Fortunately, I’m not fifteen any more. Unfortunately, I have the attitude of an eighty year old man up past his bedtime.

“Where-- are your-- parents--?” I wheeze, my voice broken by coughs. Damn, all these years of smoking and I still can’t do it right.

“Ohmygodohmygod, i-it’s Ryan fucking Ross!” 

I force my best smile and return to my full height, finally able to suppress the coughing. “Yeah,” I laugh at how stupid this is. “It’s me.”

I sign their arms, take a picture, and let them go on their merry way with a gentle scolding to get on home. I don’t question why they were so close to our bus, but I can only hope they didn’t bother the rest of the guys. Jon especially tends to get temperamental, but I chalk it up to him being the eldest. He doesn’t like to babysit.

I finish my cigarette before I walk onto the bus. I bang open the door, not bothering to be quiet. Everyone is awake anyways, playing a game of cards in the main room. Brendon catches sight of me first, and his face lights up. A little puppy. Just like I said.

“Ryan! Where the hell were you? We’ve been so bored without you, man.” He stands, his grin crooked. “C’mere.” He opens his arms and goes in for a hug, one I expertly avoid. He turns to me with a pout, brows furrowed a little, but he doesn’t push the issue.

“I was getting food. I for one, am sick of everyone’s shitty cooking and takeout.”  
I flop onto the couch next to Spencer, flashing my buddy a smile. Spencer is a good guy. We’ve been friends since we were little kids. It was us against the world. He and I are the original founders of Panic!, and he’s always a joy to have around. He has his asshole moments, but who doesn’t. I just want this godforsaken tour to be over with. 

“Hey, at least we’re trying. You won’t even put in effort, Miss Queen of the Castle.” He nudges me jokingly and smirks. I can’t help but chuckle.

“I’m too pretty to cook. Besides, I have all these handsome boys to do it for me.”  
I wink at Spencer, but a quick look over at Brendon confirms that he’s the one blushing. It really is too easy to taunt him, but I’m not a sadist. I realize that I probably reek of sex and desperately need a shower. 

“Well, gents, I believe I’m due in for some personal hygiene.” I stand from my seat, ignoring Brendon’s whine of annoyance. The other guys don’t seem to mind, but Brendon stands and pouts. 

“You just got back, can’t you play with us for a little bit?” He looks bummed, but I’m filthy.

“You guys are in the middle of a game, I’ll join in when I’m clean.” It’s like scolding a child. If you don’t talk to him firmly, he won’t listen. He’s a stubborn guy, but it’s just part of his personality. I place a hand on his shoulder, noting the way he tenses. “Promise.” 

I let him go and he visibly relaxes. He exhales a held breath sharply.  
“Okay,” He gives in, acting nonchalant for his own benefit. I shrug and walk towards the tiny bus bathroom. I bump into one of our roadies on the way, and he gives me an annoyed look. Like it’s my fault. I hear him mumble something about entitled band members, and then he’s gone. 

Can’t win ‘em all.

I start the water and undress, once again looking at my reflection in the mirror.  
Even though my appearance is the same, I can’t help but feel different when Pete’s not around. When he’s not here I’m… Empowered, almost. This band, it’s mine, and having something to exercise power over makes me feel a lot more in control of my own life. I drag my hands down my face, smearing the remaining show makeup. I look like some sort of emo clown. It almost makes me laugh, but the last thing I need is for the guys to call me out on laughing at nothing.

I hop in the shower, tension relaxing from my muscles as soon as the warmth hits my back. It soaks my hair and runs off my cheeks. It feels good; hot water is a commodity on this bus, especially since Jon loves to sap it all with his forty-five minute showers. 

It’s an in-and-out routine. Nothing particularly interesting crosses my mind. I mostly just think about my new songs while I wash the makeup and grime off myself. I exit after a bit, drying off and wrapping a towel around my waist. Towel secured, I walk towards the shared bunks and begin to dress.

As I finish pulling up my boxers, I hear someone burst into the room with a surprising amount of urgency. It’s Brendon, face contorted into an expression I can’t quite place. He looks like he needs to tell me something, but he’s completely frozen. After a moment of waiting, I give him a bit of prompting. 

“Where’s the fire, Bren?” I ask, smile on my face. I’ve been naked around these guys before, so being mostly undressed isn’t a problem, but I still find myself uncomfortable when Brendon unintentionally eyes my body. He doesn’t answer me and I sigh, prompting him again. 

“Brendon.” 

“Um. Can I talk to you?” He’s obviously uncomfortable, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s unlikely he knew I’d be in this state when he busted down the door. Brendon fidgets, a hand at his side, anxiously fumbling with what I know to be a piece of paper. It’s a weird habit. While most people bite their nails or twirl their hair, he rolls up tiny pieces of paper and leaves them everywhere. It’s sort of cute, but mostly strange.

“Yeah, sure, let me put some clothes on.” He doesn’t stop me and sits on Jon’s bunk. It’s right below mine. I pull on the closest shirt and sit next to him, watching the paper between his fingers.

He tosses it aside and I nudge him forcefully, but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s rare to see Brendon so focused on something, he’s generally pretty impulsive., It must be important. My stomach drops when I realize what he probably wants to talk about.

I can’t reject him right now. It’d be career suicide. The tour just started, and it’s going to be really hard to handle each other if he’s sour over me. Maybe that's not it, though. It’s always hard to tell with Brendon, so I just wait for him to budge.

“I.. Do...” He purses his lips and turns to me, brows knitted. His entire face is flushed pink, and I notice his hands are clenched into fists at his side. 

“Do you think it’s weird if a guy likes another guy?” He blurts out suddenly, jerking his head away to face the wall. I can’t help but laugh at that. It’s kind of adorable, the bashfulness about his sexuality. I quiet myself firmly, recalling that he was raised in a Mormon house while I was raised to be reckless. I have no reason to be bashful. I sincerely doubt he has even lost his virginity, despite all the loud talk when we’re around Jon and Spence.

“Nah. Why, do you like somebody?” I raise a brow and shove him again, gently this time. He instantly rebutts, shoving me back with a laugh.  
“N-no. I just. Think I might like guys, too.”

“Well, was that it?” I ask, and he gives me a confused look. 

“What do you mean, is that it?” He asks, tone incredulous. 

“Is that it. I like guys too, big whoop. You’re bi, dude.” I say it as nonchalantly as possible, hoping to drop the subject. Brendon’s crush on me, plus only wearing boxers, plus talking about who we we’re attracted to, equals a formula I don’t want to solve. Brendon is still gazing at me like I’m some sort of idiot. His face is slightly more vibrant.

“O-h,” He finally speaks after a moment, clearing his throat and attempting to gain what little composure he has left. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know that I couldn’t care less about how he acts around me. People lie about themselves a lot. Brendon does an especially bangup job of pretending for my benefit. Women did that too: fans, past girlfriends. Everyone always views me as somebody to impress while in actuality, I’m just a dude trying to get by in life. I happen to be pretty good at writing songs, and I’m OK looking. Guess that gets you places.

I haven’t said anything, and neither has Brendon. We stare at each other blankly for a bit before he sighs, mulling over his next words carefully. 

“Have you ever kissed a guy?” He can’t hide that eager expression, and I can’t deny him.

“Yeah. A lot of guys,” I say, grimacing. It’s sort of pathetic, really, but I’ve kissed a lot of girls too. 

“What’s it like?” His eyes are wide, the size of the moon, and I chuckle. He pouts and grabs my arm, shaking me. “C’mon, dude, please?”

Brendon is good at getting what he wants, and it doesn’t take much whining for me to cave. I decide to be as brief as possible; he doesn’t need to know my filthy escapades with the rich and famous of Hollywood. Read: Pete Wentz.

“Like kissing a girl, I guess. Guys usually have chapped lips though, and they’re more aggressive than women. No matter who you’re macking on, dudes try to take charge.” I turn my attention to my nails, rubbing my thumbnail. “Girls want you to take the lead, yanno? It’s not like that with guys.”  
Brendon is clinging to my every word, and it almost hurts to see how desperate he is. It’s on his lips, I know it: _‘Can I kiss you?’_

I’ll reiterate; I don’t have the energy to deal with a depressed Urie for the next two months.

“Anyway, yeah. Nothing crazy, it’s just kissing. You’ll get your chance. Every emo kid this side of the hemisphere wants to get in your pants, Brendon. Find a hot guy and stick your tongue down his throat, easy-peasy.” It comes off a lot harsher than I mean, but he doesn’t seem too offended. 

I offer him a weak smile and he stands off the bunk, rejuvenated now that I’ve shared some of my secrets with him. “Thanks, Ryan. I don’t really think I’m.. ready to come out, yet. So. Don’t-” 

“Don’t tell anyone. Got it.” I give him a thumbs up and he grins at me, returning the gesture.

“Thank you. So…” Brendon trails off, “Wanna play cards now?” He sounds hopeful, but this conversation has exhausted me. It’s almost one in the morning, and I should probably crash. Show at seven; at least it’s in the evening.

“Nah dude,” Cue the heartbreak. “Tomorrow, though. Promise.” 

Like I suspected, Brendon looks borderline distraught. He lifts his hand, offering his little finger to me.  
“Pinky promise?”  
He’s sincere. 

I sigh and stand, linking our pinkies together.  
“Pinky promise.” 

Brendon seems complacent, a smug smirk on his face. He’s obviously pleased I gave into his childish plead. I put him back in place, shoving his chest back with a laugh. “Alright, now get the fuck outta here. Keep it down in there, and no crazy orgies while I’m gone.” 

Brendon laughs, an airy note, and winks at me. “No promises. See you tomorrow, Ross.” 

“Same to you, Urie.” 

The door slides shut, and he’s gone. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it aside, lethargically crawling over to my bunk. I climb up the ladder and flop onto the uncomfortable mattress; my nose nearly touches the ceiling. It’s one of our first tours, so I wasn’t expecting a five-star bus, but room to breathe would be nice. I want something better, fast.

I roll onto my side and sigh, the conversation with Brendon still lingering in my mind. I subconsciously lift a hand and run two fingers across my lips, reminiscing my first kiss with a boy.

It had been when I was sixteen- a junior in high school. I was still struggling with my sexuality, designated the ‘lonely, gawky, music fag’ by my incredibly tolerant classmates. I didn’t hate school, it was a welcome release from my tumultuous household, but I was never eager to be teased. For the most part, I minded my own business and the kids who bothered me occasionally minded theirs.

But, there was one guy in particular, Kyle Cannon, who really loathed me. No matter what I did, this guy was always up my ass. He would constantly shove me around, throwing derogatory names at me like nobody’s business, which annoyed me more than anything. We had P.E. together that year, and he would snap his towel at my legs while I was changing. It was weird; I never knew why he did it, but he did. He’d laugh it up with his droogs like it was some sort of hilarious comedic act. Really selling out Madison Square, Cannon.

Now, Kyle was as straight-edge as they come. Not only was he attending one of the most prestigious schools Nevada had to offer, but he was on Bishop Gorman’s star baseball team, made perfect marks, and had a type of hot cheerleader girlfriend. He was a real All-American Guy and all that garbage. Honestly, I only knew about his achievements because he would never stop gloating.

One day Kyle cornered me in the locker room, alone. Usually he had his wolf pack with him, but it was after everyone else had left for the field. He shoved me up against the locker, invading my personal space. I remained unresponsive.  
Unsatisfied, Kyle dropped me. He studied me more a moment, then mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch. I politely asked him to reiterate, and he obliged.  
He wanted me to kiss him. I asked him to repeat again, because I obviously did not catch that shit correctly. 

He responded by promptly forcing his lips against mine, fisting his grubby hands in my shirt. Our noses bumped so forcefully I thought mine might bleed. It didn’t, thankfully, and I let him do what he wanted. I didn’t enjoy the kiss, but it wasn’t bad. His lips were rough and left soft imprints wherever he kissed me- on my throat, cheek, below my eye. He was hard against my leg, but that's where I drew the line.

Eventually I pushed him off of me and ran outside. We didn’t talk after that, and he never bothered me again. 

I fall onto my chest from my side and heave out a sigh, burying my face in the pillow. Kissing Kyle and anybody after him was nothing like kissing Pete. My entire body tenses at the thought of Pete intimate with his girlfriend. His girlfriend, whom he loves very much. 

It’s torture because I love him.

I close my eyes and force my body to sleep. Tomorrow is another day, and it's one step closer to the end of this tour.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr, [here](http://ryroes.tumblr.com) if you have any questions/concerns about the fic! I'm really looking forward to writing this.
> 
> All that aside, thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave feedback! All comments are appreciated! (:


End file.
